GIRLS ARE NOT FUNNY

What’s the Chance of Actually Finding a Man?

Dave and Bailey

Chicago, IL

It seems as though every time my friends Dave and Bailey get together around me, they land on the topic of my relationship status. Both of them were in town recently, and this is just about how it went down, “Jess, you need to come home.” Bailey kindly affirmed.

“Dude! She can’t go back to San Diego, she’s not going to find a man there. She needs to stay in the Midwest where the real men actually are.” Dave argues back.

“Well, I kind of think so and so is pretty cool…” I chime in.  

“Really Jess?” Bailey asked, “There are seven billion people in the world. And you’re just considering that guy because you know him.”

And that’s usually how it ends: Dave marrying me off and Bailey keeping me far away. It’s all very endearing.

But Bailey’s demand to think bigger got me, in fact, thinking bigger.

Seven billion people, I thought. That’s got to be a bunch of bologna.

So I pulled out the maths and I got to work.

How many options do I really have?

According to the census, as of 2010, there were 6,892,319,000 people in the world. Since I have no immediate plans of traveling globally as well as soliciting myself as someone’s green card, I’m going to narrow that number down to the U.S.’ population at 314,235,653.

Females make for awesome friends, but terrible boyfriends, and they make up about 51.8% of the U.S.’ population. I’m no mathemagician, but that leaves me with only 151,781,326 males.

Seven billion, Bailey? Yeah right.

Let’s keep going.

I currently live in the state of Illinois with a male population of 6,292,276. Illinois isn’t exactly the most hopping state and I don’t find myself hanging outside Chicago much. So… Chicago has a male population of 1,405,684. Still at a one in a million “unique” opportunity, but that window of opportunity falls dramatically since 7.8 percent of those males are actually appropriately aged. That leaves 109,643, 25-29 year old males in Chicago. Though, if I were looking to pull off a Demi Moore/Ashton Kutcher fiasco somewhere down the road, then I could tack on about another 200,000 suitors. But until that’s legal… let’s just keep rolling.

5.7 percent of the Chicago male population is gay, that leaves me with 103,394. I tend to like white dudes and that’s 71.5 percent of the Chicago male population. But I wouldn’t mind a little color, so let’s bump that percentage up to an even 73 percent just for good measure which leaves me now with 75,477. Less than 49 percent of the Chicago population is Protestant, so at best, I am left with 36,983.

I have no plans of home-wrecking, so with only 33 percent of Chicagoans being single, that leaves me with 12,204.

12,204 available, Jessica-applicable, Chicago men. That’s a lot. If I could narrow it down more – I would. But I didn’t get very far on Google typing in “how many men in Chicago have a beard?”

Note to self: start an American beard registry.

12,204 Bailey! That’s hardly 7 billion!

But hey, it’s still looking pretty promising.

Church vs. Church

Chicago, IL

I’ve got a major confession to make: I love my church.

That’s hard to admit, because once you say it, you’re just going to find something wrong with it, right? I mean that’s the mandatory plight of the American church-goer, right? To be in a constant state of at least slightly bothered as you choose to show up and participate, right? Right?!

Well, that’s what I’ve always thought.

But seriously, I love my church. For instance, at small group last night the goofy business dude gave me some of his home brew (which I felt like even I worked hard for because he had spent twenty minutes explaining the process to me before it was done three weeks prior), I said home brew. We drank beer at small group. And then, when it got just quiet enough, the accountant to my right farted. So we laughed about that right alongside her for about two solid minutes, all the while, taking an exegetical look at Ephesians.

There are so many good things to say about my church. Doctrine. Structure. Mission. Community. All good.

Now, about three months ago, while I sat in my seat at my church in Orlando, a young black girl came onstage, named Miracle to pray us out.

These are some the things she said:

“Dear Lawd, I thank you for Yo love. I pray for all da ol people with da sickle cell and da diabetes Lawd and da cancer. Lawd heal der bodies Lawd. And I pray for da kids in Africa drinkin that dirty water wearin dos nasty clothes. And I thank you for my clothes and my fancy shoes Lawd. And Lawd I just thank you for my sisturs and my mama and da people in dis place here. Thank you Lawd, amen.”

So can I just say, admit as well, that I loved my church in Orlando, too. Loved two churches? Is that possible?

And get this – they’re polar opposite. Missio Dei in Chicago is an Acts 29 church plant, non-traditionally respectful of tradition and structure and God’s word. They’re also reformed.

City Beautiful in Orlando is a large community of artists striving to be inter-generational, valuing all ages and their voice – hence, Miracle’s prayer. They are not reformed.

Style, views and priorities will always be important to the western churching-hoping consumerist. But those things aren’t what kept me coming back for more. It was absolutely the Gospel. Both churches have and will always provide the knowledge of a transformative regenerating redemption in Jesus Christ through His death and resurrection, and made it priority to remind me of that constantly.

As a child of God you have a right to the Gospel. So start preaching it, repeating it and hearing it.

Pure Michigan

Grand Rapids, MI to Chicago, IL

I had a coming to Jesus conversation, with Jesus actually, on a bluff overlooking the lake in southwest Michigan. It’s clear more than ever that life revolves around Michigan. The weekend prior, I watched Mj get engaged to Nick there, it was my first stop heading into the Midwest a couple months ago; Garrett will be getting married there in the fall and not to mention the visits I still have to take to connect with all of my grandmother’s living siblings. Michigan is, seemingly, my past, present and future, and quite frankly, I’m not complaining. Actually, I’m addicted. Its famous summers, blueberry picking, lake cottages, and the long stream of heritage that seems to be divinely woven throughout all of my friends and leaves me convinced that our great grandmothers were all friends at young ages and prayed that God would bring their lineage back together one day.

All of this coalesced into that very moment on that bluff yesterday. The sweet Michigan breeze through the trees, Jesus, the lake, and if the cheese-o-meter in this sentence couldn’t go up anymore, there was also the classic family to my left wearing all white shirts and blue jeans taking family photos - the moment was perfect. Or rather, it was impressionable.

I had a lot of, “What’s next?” questions for Jesus. A lot of, “Well this is what I’m good at. You know that, right? This is what I’d like to do, Jesus. Can you help me with that?”

And after all of that was processed, the only thing that withstood was the Matt Chandler podcast I had been mentally munching on during my solo drive back home to Chicago before I had stopped to sit on this bluff. He quotes a friend that says something like – in this great exchange between man and God, the absolute only thing we have to offer, is our sin.

This thought does not necessarily negate my, “What’s next?” questions, but it certainly attached some perspective to it all.

Molly & Me

Chicago, IL

Guess what my Chicago employment is? You guessed it! I’m a nanny to three wonderful children - Elijah, 6; GiGi, 4; and Molly, a 10 year old, yellow lab.

Being touristy with Elijah and GiGi

Molly is the worst. But (kind of, not really, maybe) in the best way. And if John Grogan can write a whole book on the life and shenanigans of his dog, Marley, certainly I can write a blog post about Molly. And by the way, Molly is pronounced: “maw-leeee” so that the constant feeling of frustration she evokes is noted and emphasized.

During my first shift, every time I sat down, Molly would whine and bark. It resembled a “Billy’s drowning in the lake!” Lassie-like bark. It was so convincing, I’d stand up franticly and ask myself, “Where are the children?!” and checked on GiGi four times during her nap.

I tried every seat in the house — the barking continued. “Sit!” “Shut up!” “Please, shut up.” Nothing worked.

My boss assured me she was being needy. So I dug deep into my heart, to the little girl that hated pets so much she let her bird fly away because it was annoying. I found that little girl and demanded reform. I was going to give Molly attention.

So I did. Molly got better.

But a few weeks in, Molly barked again. Elijah warned, “You should take her out to pee.”

“Na, she just wants my love.” I replied giving into our petting routine. She kept barking and ten minutes later I caught a whiff of a Molly fart, which is similar to old meatloaf and a touch of overly ripe lemon.

“I know why Molly was barking.” Elijah smartly announced. He didn’t need to explain — the smell, the barking — I knew.

Picking up a pile of poop sucks. But I would have gladly done that, bare-handed if it meant avoiding the cleaning venture ahead of me.

This is what I think Molly did while I wasn’t looking:

1. Pooped in a bowl.

2. Grabbed an apron and whisk.

3. Added relish.

4. Added gelatin.

5. Mixed well but allowed for some lumps.

6. Spread contents across dining room floor, approximately a 12’ x 12’ space.

All this time, I thought Molly wanted my love. I dug deep for that dog, real deep. And how does she repay me? Doggie diarrhea.

I’d like to say things have gotten better. Since then, she’s peed on the carpet, vigorously licked every inch of my legs, and knocked over the industrial sized trash can to eat old pizza and such, countless times. Elijah never fails to remind me that this only happens when I’m here. However, I think I’ve mastered the pooping thing. In fact, the other day while on a walk, she was watching herself poop, which put her into a chasing tail-like rotation. By the time she was done, she had created some sort of spiral of poop. It uncannily resembled a crop circle from Signs, I was Bruce Willis and this was a warning. A warning of more poop, probably.

That’s Molly, sitting like a lady.